by Sandra Heath
Major Henry Dashingham—Harry to his friends—was a Scotsman of medium height, with sandy hair, hazel eyes, a mustache, and side-whiskers. He was in his hussar uniform of a gold-braided blue dolman jacket, a wide red-and-gold sash, tight white breeches, and spurred cavalry boots, with a fur-trimmed pelisse fixed over his left shoulder. A saber and flat leather purse embossed with his regimental badge was suspended from his waist, and beneath his arm he carried a fine plumed bearskin. He grinned at Dominic. “It’s been a long time, you old rogue.” His Edinburgh accent was very pleasant, his smile and easy charm even more so.
“A long time indeed! How are you. Harry?” Dominic replied warmly, seizing his friend’s hand and pumping it.
“Still in need of a good woman, but otherwise thriving,” Harry replied. Then he pretended to sniff the humid air in the room. “Dear God above, Dom, you smell like a whore!”
“I use the best cologne, I’ll have you know.”
“Purchased in a Covent Garden bordello?”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “You know more than I about such shocking low places.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes. Besides, I can promise that you’d prefer to smell me now than earlier today.”
“What do you mean?”
“It concerns the filthiest farmyard in creation, and an impudent young woman who has managed to insert herself under my skin to a degree I can hardly believe.”
“Do I detect a matter of the heart?”
“Certainly not!” Dominic glanced at the footman, who waited at a discreet distance in the passage. “We’ll adjourn to the drawing room, and will require supper and a bottle of Medoc, or whatever good red is in the cellar.”
“Sir.” The footman bowed, then hastened away.
Dominic looked at Harry again. “How on earth did you know I was here?”
“I was in Zuder’s, laying siege to a goddess with the reddest hair in England, when I saw you driving past. I sent a boy after the carriage, to see where you went.”
“So you still have a penchant for redheads, eh?”
“And sloe-eyed brunettes, to say nothing of blue-eyed blondes. Ah, me. I fear the entire female sex is to my liking.”
“Is your Bath redhead the lady of your heart?”
Harry leaned against the windowsill and folded his arms. “She’s just the latest pretty face to catch my eye. There’s no one in particular yet, whereas you . . .” He paused. “When last I heard, you were hopelessly in love with Lady Georgiana Mersenrie; in fact I was informed she was your mistress. Is that still so?” He watched as Dominic combed his damp hair in front of the shaving mirror on the washstand.
Dominic lowered his comb. “Georgiana is rather a sensitive topic. She was my mistress, it’s true, and if she’d consented to be my wife, I’d have been the happiest man alive. But I fear I rank too lowly for her.”
“Rank?”
“Nothing below a duke will do.” Dominic reached for a cravat.
Harry seemed relieved. “So it’s over between you?”
“On her part, yes. Why?”
“Because she’s here in Bath.”
“Oh?” Dominic’s fingers became still upon the half-tied cravat.
Harry nodded. “And she’s not unaccompanied. The Marquess of Hightower is constantly at her side. He has recently been seconded to our regiment, and so has to be here. That’s why I was a little uneasy to see you arriving. I thought maybe she was being unfaithful.”
Dominic leaned his hands on the washstand and bowed his head for a moment. So Lord Algernon Lofty, Marquess of Hightower, future Duke of Grandcastle, was still the target of Georgiana’s ambition. He glanced up again. “I’ll warrant she didn’t want to leave London,” he murmured, remembering how glad she’d been when he’d departed. She’d wanted him to be the other side of the country, far away from her, so he could well imagine her reaction on discovering that if she wished to keep her hold on Hightower, she’d have to come to Bath as well.
“You’re right, for she complained loud and long about it last night at the White Hart Hotel, which has become our officers’ mess for the duration.”
“I’m suddenly filled with an inordinate desire to attend this review. Where is it to take place?”
“Claverton Down at noon, but listen to me, Dom. She’s making her interest in Hightower very plain indeed, so I suggest you avoid her at all costs.”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
Harry shrugged. “You never did heed my advice.”
“Nor you mine,” Dominic pointed out.
“True.” Harry straightened from the windowsill. “What do you see in her, Dom? She may be beautiful, but she’s as hard as nails, and sincerity is a quality in which she is singularly lacking. The Beddems are without doubt one of the most disagreeable families in the land, and of them all, she and her younger brother. Lord Benjamin, are the worst.”
“Have a care, Harry, for although you may be an old and valued friend, you tread on thin ice when you speak ill of the woman I love. As for her brother, you happen to be beneath his roof right now, so it’s equally inappropriate to denigrate him.”
“Point taken.” Harry was curious. “If you and Georgiana are no longer together, why has Beddem allowed you to have this house?”
“It was Georgiana’s idea, a ruse to get me out of London. That’s why I can be sure she didn’t want to come here.”
“Enough of her. What brings you to this neck of the woods? Bath doesn’t exactly seem your cup of tea,” Harry said then.
“I’m here to find a wife.”
“Good God.”
Dominic smiled wryly as he went to the door. “Come, I’ll tell you all in the drawing room.”
“I trust you mean to elaborate upon the intriguing subject of filthy farmyards and impudent young women?”
“Certainly, for now that I smell sweet again, I can be reasonably civil on the subject.” Dominic ushered him from the room.
As the two gentlemen settled to enjoy their first glass of Medoc, Bodkin was having a wonderful time at Zuder’s. He’d gained entry by shinning up a drainpipe from the narrow lane at the side of the building, and then climbing through a faulty skylight. The shop was now closed for the night, and its magnificent selection of sweet things was entirely at the disposal of a boggart-brownie who had no manners at all. A street lamp outside cast a poor light over everything as he set about ransacking the shelves and counter. Several carriages drove slowly around the comer, but no one observed the plate that mysteriously raised itself from the neat stack on the oak counter. Nor was there any witness as it piled itself with a mountain of pastries, cakes, meringues, fudge, and sugared almonds, before spiriting itself to one of the little round tables. A chair drew itself out, and then the goodies were set upon with such vigor that within minutes only a scattering of crumbs and a smear of cream were left.
Bodkin smacked his lips. “It’s not what it would have been if Nutmeg had baked, but happy birthday to me anyway.” Then he got up to replenish the plate. By the time a second mountain had been demolished. Bodkin’s boggart self had gone into abeyance for a while, and was a little more placid. If he’d had any sense he would have left the shop at this point, but he was greedy, and filled the plate a third time. He wasn’t hungry anymore, and had already had more than enough, but he crammed everything into his mouth, only stopping when he began to feel ill. He pushed the plate away and sat back with a groan, holding his bulging tummy. The smell of sugar seemed to press in on him from all sides, and suddenly he could bear it no more. Scrambling from the chair, he made his way quickly back up to the attic and out through the skylight into the blessedly cold night air. There he inhaled deeply, hoping the sick feeling would subside. He would never eat a sweetmeat again, never! Until the next time, of course . . .
He eased himself gingerly down the drainpipe up which he’d shinned so effortlessly a little earlier, and then made his way back to Royal Crescent. Now, as well as feeling
ill he also felt guilty. Instead of gorging on stolen sweet things, he should have been scouring every house in the crescent for Nutmeg. It was too late now, he felt too unwell to do anything except go to sleep. He’d let his beloved down! Large tears rolled from his eyes and disappeared into his shaggy fur, and he quickened his pace, his feet pattering along the quiet pavements. Once in the mews, he returned to the hayloft he’d selected earlier and made himself as comfortable as he could next to the pumpkin. He would sleep now, and resume his search in the morning.
Chapter 8
The sun streamed into Polly’s bedroom as she pinned her hair in front of the dressing table mirror. Her room was on the third floor, facing along Brock Street toward the Circus, and had gray-and-white striped wallpaper. The rose silk four-poster bed stood in a raised alcove, with a balustrade that separated it from the rest of the room. Rose, gray, and white were also picked out on the ceiling plasterwork, and again in the specially woven Wilton carpet. There was a carved black marble fireplace, a dressing table draped with frilled white muslin, and a concealed door that gave into a small anteroom that held the washstand and two tall wardrobes.
Polly grimaced as she tried to fix the knot in her hair, and then tease ringlets over her left shoulder. She’d had to leave Horditall without her maid, whose day off it had been yesterday, and who had gone visiting no one knew where. Polly sighed, for this meant doing it all herself, and today her hair seemed willfully determined to be difficult. At last she put down her comb and stood up. Her appearance was not what she would have wished; indeed she felt barely presentable enough for Horditall House on washday, let alone breakfast at Royal Crescent! She smoothed her yellow-and-white gingham morning gown, fluffed the lace at the neckline, and then draped her white shawl over her shoulders. “I’m afraid this is the best you’ll manage this morning, Polly Peach,” she said resignedly, then left to go down to the dining room on the ground floor, where her uncle had been waiting for some time for her to join him.
As she reached the ground floor, she heard concerned voices drifting up from the basement kitchens. By the tone, it was clear something untoward had happened, but she could only catch phrases here and there. Wrong horses? Grease on upholstery? Doors deliberately tied? Harness stolen? Halloween two days early? She was puzzled. What were they talking about?
The spacious dining room was directly beneath the second-floor drawing room, and also faced south down the sloping common to the Avon, as well as west along the magnificent sweep of the crescent toward the matching house at the opposite end, residence of the Gotenuvs. The walls were sand-colored, and there were ruched cream silk curtains at all the windows. Hordwell’s regimen had commenced before dawn, when a sedan chair had conveyed him to the King’s Bath to be immersed in the medicinal waters. On his return, well wrapped in warm blankets, he’d retired to his bed for an hour to cool down. Soon he would sally forth again, this time to the Pump Rooms to take the waters internally. He had commenced his breakfast when Polly entered, for the rigors of the baths had given him a very hearty appetite, and he’d tired of waiting for her.
He wore a mushroom-colored coat and mustard waistcoat, with cream breeches and top boots, and was reading the morning newspaper while applying himself to a plate of scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, and deviled kidneys. The air was warm with the smells of food, coffee, and chrysanthemums from the bowl that stood in the center of the mahogany table.
Polly’s little shoes tapped on the polished wooden floor as she approached the table. “Good morning. Uncle Hordwell.”
“You’re a little late, miss,” he replied, spearing a sausage with his fork.
“Being without a maid is time consuming,” she explained, as Giles hastened to draw out a chair for her.
Fearing an imminent request for a suitable maid to be hired, Hordwell gave her a beaming smile of approval. “You look excellent, my dear. The queen’s own maid could not have done better.”
“Rest easy. Uncle, for I intend to manage on my own,” she replied, as Giles brought her a plate of breakfast that was scarcely smaller than her uncle’s. Clearly the footman believed everyone from the country ate like hogs, she thought, as she returned her attention to her uncle. “What has happened this morning? I overheard something about stolen harness.”
Hordwell looked up hastily from his newspaper. “Stolen? Surely not.” He looked inquiringly at Giles. “Has something occurred?”
“Yes, sir.” As the footman explained about the trouble discovered in the mews that morning, Polly knew instinctively that Bodkin’s hand lay behind it. She also knew that the brownie wouldn’t have stolen any harness, just hidden it somewhere. Oh, Bodkin, she thought with an inward sigh. She had been racking her brain as to how to find him, and now it seemed the mews might be the best place to start. Failing that, she would visit every pastry shop in Bath, for Bodkin was almost certain to take himself along to one or another of them. Probably Zuder’s, since that was the one he would have passed at journey’s end yesterday.
While Polly’s thoughts rambled around Bodkin’s probable activities, Hordwell was concerned that his property might have received some unwelcome attention. “What of my vehicle, Giles? Is all well with it?”
“It escaped attention, sir.”
“Excellent.” The matter in the mews ceased to be of any consequence, and Hordwell resumed his breakfast.
The footman withdrew from the room, and as Polly poured herself some coffee, her glance was drawn out of a window that faced along the crescent. Sir Dominic Fortune had just emerged from his house to mount a fine bay thoroughbred brought around from the mews by a groom. She paused with the silver coffee pot suspended above her cup, unable to help surveying him appreciatively from head to toe. He wore a pine green riding coat and white breeches, with a green silk neck cloth, pale gray waistcoat, and top hat, and he flexed his fingers in his tight gloves as he prepared to mount.
Polly felt her cheeks go warm and pink. She still thought he was horrid, so why did she also find him so devastating? It was a paradox. She hadn’t realized he could see into the room as easily as she could see out, but to her huge dismay, he suddenly looked directly at her, doffed his hat, and swept her a scornful bow. Embarrassment swept hotly over her, and she declined to acknowledge him as with a shaking hand she continued to pour the coffee. A few moments later the clatter of hooves echoed as he rode past, and although she stole a surreptitious glance, he did not look again. The omission annoyed her, which was another paradox.
Hordwell finished his gargantuan breakfast and folded his napkin. “Well, that will keep me going,” he declared.
“It will keep your gout going, too,” she replied.
“What an acid tongue you have, to be sure,” he grumbled.
“It’s no more than you deserve.”
“I begin to pity poor Lord Benjamin!”
“Lord Benjamin? Why? What has he to do with this?”
“He’ll be acquiring a veritable nag when he marries you.”
She stiffened. “I keep telling you, I’m not going to be his wife,” she replied.
“My dear, as your guardian, it is within my power to arrange your marriage.”
She stared at him. “You wouldn’t!” she breathed. There was no reply, so she spoke again. “Is that what you intend to do. Uncle? Force me into a marriage I abhor?”
He sighed. “Polly, can’t you see that this a very advantageous match?”
“Advantageous? For whom? Lord Benjamin, I fancy, for his are the empty coffers!”
“You would have a title.”
“Not much of one.”
“At the very least, be civil about Lord Benjamin when you are enjoying his hospitality.”
“I’m not enjoying anything. Uncle, indeed I’m only here because you insisted. I would much prefer to take a room at one of the hotels in town.”
“That matter has already been discussed. I will not permit you to stay elsewhere.”
No, in case you have to pay, she thoug
ht angrily, buttering a slice of toast. He wouldn’t be obliged to meet her bill, for she had more than sufficient funds in her allowance, but the dread of having to dip into his purse was always uppermost in his mind.
Hordwell exhaled heavily. “You’re a very trying creature, Polly. Most young women would leap at the chance of marrying into the nobility.”
“I see nothing noble about Lord Benjamin Beddem,” she retorted.
He felt it would be wise to change the subject. “I, er, presume you mean to accompany me to Claverton Down later?” he asked, deliberately changing the thorny subject.
“To the review? Yes, of course, if that is what you wish.”
“Good, for I’ve taken the liberty of sending a note to the Gotenuvs, informing them that you will accompany me at their luncheon party.”
“Informing them? Isn’t that a little brazen? Surely you should have made a polite request?”
“Nonsense. The count is a very close acquaintance of Lord Benjamin’s, and since you are a guest here as well as the future Lady—” He broke off hastily, not wishing to start another confrontation.
Polly gave him a look, then bit into her toast.
He cleared his throat. “I, er, trust you will drive to the Pump Room with me in the meantime?”
“Yes, that too, if you wish.”
“I do, and have already canceled my sedan chair and ordered the carriage in readiness. Oh. by the way, I also wish you to accompany me to the ball at the Assembly Rooms tomorrow night.”
She was dismayed. “But I haven’t brought a ball gown with me!”
“That is easily remedied. A courier will await your instructions this afternoon. All you have to do is write a list of exactly what you want, send it with him to Horditall House, and the maids there will pack it all. The courier will then bring everything back here.”
She relaxed a little, but only a little. “Didn’t you say the Duke and Duchess of York are to be present? Uncle, my gowns are hardly grand enough for royalty. I really should have a new—”
